


All Hearts Are Broken

by rude_not_ginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:37:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2160795">The Woman Will Cry.</a></p>
<p>If there is a time to live and a time to die, what would be Sherlock's reaction to the death of Irene Adler?  One character makes his deduction based on his astute observations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hearts Are Broken

_All lives end._

_All hearts are broken._

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Let us journey into another tale of what-if, Sherlock. We've discussed you, discussed your agonizing, painful death and the things it would do to the people who, for lack of a better term, _love_ you.

We've discussed Her. Her, with the capital H, as you've deified Her in all manners of ways. The Woman, Irene Adler.

Now that the unpleasantness of your gunshot wound is behind us, leaving us with nothing but the sour taste of betrayal from Mrs. Watson in the back of our throats, let's discuss Irene Adler properly. The Woman who left the red rose on your hospital table. The only flower you bothered to take with you when you escaped.

I know She has been here, Sherlock. She's wiped away the kiss She left on your forehead when you came out of surgery, but I do know.

I want to discuss the pain of sentiment with you, Sherlock.

Do you remember Redbeard? Do you remember the big, dark haired dog who gave you big, wet kisses just because you were his master? Of course you do. And you must remember how very sick the dog became. How Mummy and Daddy sent him away to live on a farm in the south of France. Everyone knows what a farm in the south of France means, Sherlock.

Everyone apart from you. Such a stupid little boy. How sad you were when you realized just how stupid. So _sad_.

And that was only a dog.

Now, let's imagine someone else, giving you kisses. Hers, I imagine, are significantly different than those of Redbeard. More calculated, more precise. With reasons that have nothing to do with you being her master. But let's imagine what happens when She, too, goes to the south of France. Because we both know with Her lifestyle, it's terribly unlikely that She'll live to an impressive old age. Neither of you will.

Let's imagine She goes first.

If She goes first outside of London---anywhere else---I will find out first and you will never know. If you're feeling some sort of sentiment stating that you will _somehow know_ , Sherlock, be aware of how _utterly stupid_ that thought is. No one knows when they lose someone, no matter how close they are, no matter if they're a genetic twin or molded by the heavens to be absolutely perfect for each other. It does. Not. Happen.

And you would never be aware. I would never let on to John Watson, I would never let on to anyone. She would simply cease any communication with you. You would think She bored of you, as I imagine you internally suspect She will do one day.

She will decay. Her body will break down, Her bones will calcify and Her muscles will rot, and you will never know. It will be better this way. It should have been this way with Redbeard, had one of the boys at school not informed you what 'the south of France' really was.

You would not go catatonic this time, I think. Not like Redbeard, not like before. Not if someone out there told you She was dead. No, She has instilled too much doubt of Her own ability to die. She is your goddess, Sherlock. She is incapable of death. Part of you would wonder, and that part would suffer, silently, but you would never truly believe it.

This is how you would cope.

So, let us go to another scenario. In this one, She not only dies, not only that, but this time, She does so in London. She does so in such a fashion that you can not doubt, not for a moment, Her death.

You are the dramatist, brother mine. You can be the one to place the scene. Shall we put Her in Baker Street? Shall we have Her suffer? A long, bloodied climb up the stairs? Clutching at her stomach, bleeding out as She climbs, seeking some assistance from you?

You, naturally, would recognize the blood when you arrived. Anyone would know what they meant upon arrival. The stomach injury, the jackknife wound. And you, you would immediately think John Watson, or his beloved wife that you still cling to despite what she's done to you.

It would be neither of them, obviously. It would be Her, your Woman. Collapsed on the floor. How else shall we set the scene? Hair splayed out on the carpet? A dramatic clue written just for you in Her own blood? No, of course not the last, that isn't Her. She wouldn't insult your intelligence that way, not even in her last moment.

And Her death would be clear, then. She would be _absolutely_ dead, without question or saving. No, there is no fairytale in this story, Sherlock, no arriving at the last moment, no priceless last words of adoration. You've arrived too late and She's already dead.

Now, let us consider what you are left with. Were this John Watson dead on your floor, you would have the possibility of revenge. You, Lestrade, Mrs. Watson, anyone who has ever met the good Dr. Watson, would all enjoy following behind and wiping out whoever was foolish enough to take such a very good man off of the planet. 

But _Her_?

No, Sherlock. No, you would lean down to Her body, and the only one, the _only person_ in the whole of the world who would mourn Her passing would be _you_. 

She has ruined and destroyed every friend She has ever had. In all likelihood, the only revenge you would be having would be against a line of well-deserving assassins or a terrorist cell She'd long since wronged. And while you might plot some idle revenge and John Watson might follow behind you on it for your sake, both of you know it would be more than futile.

You would have nothing but pain. No deductions to pull up. No mystery to solve, no crime to fix. Nothing but a hollowness far deeper than what you have now. You could be left with that sad music, the memory of that flower she gave you, that kiss on your forehead, and then---- _nothing_. Because that is all you would have. She would give you _nothing_. Sentiment is nothing but pain.

And blood is so very difficult to get out of carpeting, Sherlock. You would never be able to truly erase her from the room. To truly forget where she died before you could get to her. Before you could stop the hole from forming just above your stomach.

These things can, of course, be avoided.

_Let her go._


End file.
